The Departure: The Final Chapter
by studyinsherlock
Summary: Sherlock confirms his suspicion of Watson working with Moriarty, and decides with the help of Inspector Lestrade to take down Morairty and win John back. But is he too late?
Kevin Madden 4/26/16

The Departure

Chapter 2

Numbers. Moriarty couldn't help but like numbers. After all, he'd been gotten his A levels in Maths at the age of 15 and proceeded to University to study Maths at Cambridge. His professors thought him to be a genius, understandably so, thought Moriarty, as he couldn't help but smirk, a ever so slight smile breaking across his lips. He sighed and raised his head and took a moment to stare at his own reflection in his mirror. His hair was long, dark as burnt coal, greasy too. "I really need a haircut," he mumbled, "but then again Samson never cut his hair and was the strongest mortal man who had ever lived." He didn't mind the teasing from John, who loved his short "high and tight-ish" military haircut. Moriarty didn't like it, but he had to be careful about altering John's appearance as Sherlock would certainly notice the scissor over comb technique and the unmistakable Ralph Lauren styling gel that Marquette's Salon always used. Sherlock would do his ridiculous little sniff and probably take out his absurd pocket magnifying glass and inspect John's hair as if he had bloody pediculosis, "or lice to all the bloody idiots in this retched city" scoffed Moriarty. "Sherlock, for one who rarely cut his own hair, knows bloody well that I used to frequent that place." That's what really burned Moriarty to the core. He had studied Maths and was his top of his class in Maths and would debate the golden number theorem with his professors for hours. He spent hours late at night curled up in a corner in the library, pouring through book after book, stopping to scratch a note or stand and shake the tiredness from his head. And then there's Sherlock. The bastard was so bloody pompus and full of himself, never having to push hard like he had to. He just had it all fall into his lap. And that's how he met John. Mycroft had tried to pay off John to follow him. John was pompous and turned down the money. Though, Moriarty knew John's natural curiosity would get the better of him, and sure enough, Sherlock pulled John into his ridiculous little game of police work. Being Lestrade's lap dog, jumping at the chance to prove to John his dazzling intellect was all that Sherlock needed to be satisfied. After all, as kids Mycroft had always been mummy and daddy's favorite, as he lacked the moodiness and drama that Sherlock dragged around with him. Virtually equal (or perhaps Sherlock having the slight edge) in wit and intelligence, this created the perfect environment for Sherlock to push his limits and test Mycroft, who was older than him and felt the need to remind Sherlock of that all the time. Moriarty scoffed and shook his head. Every "superhero" had their kryptonite and Sherlock's happened to be the little brother inferiority complex. He constantly felt the need to prove himself to everyone, because he felt that he was never good enough, which was a royal fucking shame. "If Sherlock hadn't been such a bloody prick to me, I wouldn't have to kill him, but London's better off without that blithering arse."

Moriarty knew that look in Sherlock's eyes. His wild, dilated pupils would dart around in excitement. He had quite the annoyingly perfect poker face as he took in the scene, figuring it out within the first minute, only letting small gasps of excitement out or the occasional smile as he looked at John and the detective's mystified faces. Slowly revealing his findings to the oblivious and bumbling bobbies standing around, watching with excitement as he continued to blow their minds, though Moriarty did give him credit for his rather quick and accurate examination of the woman in pink. Yes, he was good. However, it's all for the rush. Anything to get the rush. Oh god those moments when your heart starts racing in your chest, those moments where the world seemed to change from color to transparent. Everything was clear, the dots connected, things just seemed to fall into place. Sleep was useless to the rush that he knew both he and Sherlock got. Unfortunately, as most good things go, he lost that rush after a while. One had to turn to other means of acquiring the rush. Moriarty looked over to the tin box, its lid popped open, a few needles and vials lay inside, as well baggies of white powder. Moriarty smiled and walked over to the box. "I used to wonder exactly how he acquired such a rush, but now it all makes sense." He had John nab it one night while Sherlock was in one of his cocaine induced late night problem solving rants. Moriarty knew that Sherlock couldn't have been getting his high naturally. Sherlock was human after all, and after the adrenaline tolerance kicks in, you have to seek desperate measures.

"Smart man!" laughed James. Cocaine is a non-addictive, cheap upper. Sherlock had bought them from Jeremy, the man who lurked around Baker streets dingy alleys and in the filthy homeless shelters. "Brilliant move!" remarked John, who had quietly slipped into the apartment without James realizing. "Of course it's bloody brilliant," remarked Moriarty, "but I had some help" as he talked over to John and kissed his forehead. He recalled that evening, where he dispatched John to go keep Sherlock "company" as Sherlock had just solved a remarkably difficult case hours earlier. John had been confused as to why he needed to get Sherlock's phone, but Moriarty knew there'd be time the enlighten John's slow mind at a future time. He figured the time was now. "I'd been trying to get into his phone for years. In all my brilliance, I've never been able to get a glimpse of that bloody cellular device. In fact, I've never personally seen him use it. But that wasn't going to last long" smirked Moriarty. It was perfect, the best way to infiltrate Sherlock's impenetrable fortress of solitude. While Sherlock was racing around, pinning pictures on his fuckin ridiculous wall, he had John run to Sherlock's desk and grab his Blackberry. John was the only one who'd ever seen where Sherlock had his phone and knew his passcode.

"It was virtually like taking candy from a baby" John remarked, "though children shouldn't have simple carbohydrates, especially given the obesity and type 2 diabetes mellitus that was sweeping the country." "Piss off," snapped Moriarty, "don't interrupt my story with more of your medical jargon."

"Fine." Quipped John in reply, "don't expect me to help you when you overdose from all of that cocaine." John hated when James did drugs, but James swore that it helped him get in Sherlock's mind and plan his next step. "Anyways, all I had to do was get Sherlock's phone and find some numbers, which I jotted down on the dirty napkin I had in my pocket."

"Brilliant, simple. He'd never suspect a thing." Laughed Moriarty, "Once I had the numbers of some of his homeless network members, I texted them and pretended to be Sherlock looking to score some coke for the night. It really is amazing the look in people's eyes moments before they die. All I had to say was a few words, they would get on their knees, say a quick sentence or two, then get up turn around and start to run and I'd gun them down. Easier than releasing a bunch of quails from a basket and using a bloody shotgun.

Sherlock's phone vibrated twice in his coat pocket. Then twice more only 30 seconds later. Sherlock snapped his eyes open, and quickly reached into his pocket to grab his Blackberry. There were two new texts, one from #3 and one from #65. Both said almost the identical thing. "Two men down. #22 and #23. Man in grey trench coat showed up, whispered a couple sentences, they handed over some baggies and then as they got up and turned around, shot them in the back of the head". Sherlock just stared as his phone for a fraction of a second, and then it hit him. "Moriarty…" he cursed. "But how?" He raced to his desk, checking to see if anything went missing. Everything seemed in place, the papers, his pens, nothing seemed out of sort. He ran to his bedroom, threw open the door and threw open his closet door, knelt down and ruffled through the small brown cardboard box sitting under a pile of wrinkle, blue and white plaid dress shirts. It was gone. Sherlock stared, and suddenly the room became very, causing Sherlock to fall to his knees. He snapped his eyes shut, took some deep breaths to calm down, and entered his mind palace, working his way back through the details of the night, who had come and gone, but that was only John and he remembered that no one had followed him in the cab with John on the way home his encounter with… "Sherlock? Is everything ok up there?" called Mrs. Hudson, breaking Sherlock's concentration. "Yes Mrs. Hudson everything's…" He gasped, and his pupils dilated wide, and he smiled. "Of course, how could I be so blind?"

"Sherlock, are you sure everything's fine up there?" Mrs. Hudson shouted from the landing on the stairs. "Yes of course it is!" Sherlock yelled back. "All I need is a minute to think this through…" he mumbled to himself. If he was right, which he almost always was, then this meant big trouble, but was something that was fixable. "Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock yelled down, "When is our lease up?" "Dear, I don't even remember, but I sure hope you aren't going anywhere!" Mrs. Hudson parried back, "it's been a pleasure having someone in the place again, especially after my husband died. I'm glad you decided to except my offer of a reduced price, I'd prefer your gunshots and weird noises in the middle of the night to silence, it's too hard to fall asleep with the only sound being your thoughts racing through your head. But never mind my rantings, just take care of yourself Sherlock! But I must ask, why do you care about when your lease is up, for god sakes you haven't paid rent the past few months, so why are you so concerned? You know I don't really mind on how late the money is, as long as I get it!"

Sherlock smiled and he let out a quiet, almost inaudible chuckled from the back of his throat. "Well Mrs. Hudson, it appears that you might be needing to find someone new to rent the apartment in the next few months! (Or possibly sooner)." Shouted Sherlock, making sure she didn't her the last part of the sentence. "Why's that dear? Are you and John having some issues? I always liked you two and I know a very good counselor not too far away which I could recommend!" she airily uttered. "MRS. HUDSON. FOR THE LAST TIME. WE. ARE. NOT. DATING." Sherlock yelled in frustration, "but we are having some other issues which I'm just not quite sure how I'm going to be able to deal with!" "OH! Well, if there's anything I can do to help, besides making John tea and biscuits, don't be afraid to give a holler!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson, I will inform you if the situation arises where I will require your assistance. In the meantime, constant vigilance!"

Inspector Lestrade's phone pinged and vibrated twice in his tweed suit inner left coat pocket. He checked it and saw a text from an unknown number, which was strange because Lestrade never gave out his number to random people unless it was during work, but he always had their number in his phone as a contact. Although suspicious, he opened the message and it read, _Inspector,_ _Head to the intersection of Baker and Thorax Avenues and you will find what you need. JM._ Lestrade peered at his phone, blinked a few times and read it again. "Who the hell is this JM person, how did they get my number, and what do I need besides a pay raise and some more coffee ?" Lestrade chuckled. _Who is this? How did you get my number? What could I possibly need?_ Lestrade quickly typed back. After a matter of 15 seconds, his phone beeped again and the message read, _What does it matter to you? Hurry, before the evidence is lost… JM._ Lestrade shook his head "This job keeps getting weirder and weirder." It was a slow day, just a bunch of paperwork to file since Sherlock had figured out the woman in pink's cause of death and who she was the night before. Lestrade stood up, stretched and yawned and put his gun in his holster and threw on his leather jacket and headed out the door. He thought about bringing backup, but then again, he had a gun, which hardly any of the people in London did, so he felt pretty damn confident. He nodded at Linda, the secretary and when she prompted him on his destination he just shrugged and said he was going out for some coffee and it wouldn't take him too long. "Do you usually bring your gun to the coffee shop?" Linda poked, "Are you afraid the coffee might be dangerous?" Lestrade just smiled and shook his head. Linda was always good for a laugh! Lestrade had just walked down the stone steps and was walking out the door when his phone pinged again. It was Sherlock and it read _For once might need your assistance. Had two of my homeless members killed today, and wondering if you could do a drug test for me. SH._ Lestrade quickly typed back, _Sure thing. Appreciate the offer. Will be over in about 30 mins, on a job right now. Lestrade._ Of course, the day was going fine and then in the blink of the eye things went bonkers. Then again, that's how his day usually went, things were slow and he would be taking a nap, then all of a sudden he would get a million and a half assignments and the day would be virtually never ending.

Moriarty sat and waited on the rooftop, with his back leaning up on the brick chimney top with his legs pulled up by his chest with his arms hugging them closely. He glanced at his phone. It took the average 6 foot tall 13 stone man about 9 minutes to walk from the police station to Baker street, in fact he had done it many times and calculated the times for different sexes and builds, and so he knew that he had some time to just sit and relax. Moriarty turned his head up to the murky gray London sky, with the clouds swirling overhead, always threatening rain. It was October and it always rained, which was perfect because when it rained people tended to shut themselves inside their apartment, which gave him to the perfect opportunity to wander the streets without being stared at, taking in all the sights and to laugh at the men dressed in their smart suits and the women dressed in dresses splashing through the puddles, squealing like the little pigs they were. Moriarty checked his watch again and saw that it was nearly time, so he got up and walked about 10 paces to the ledge and peered down into the street. Suddenly he spotted a small figure about five stories below, walking with his left hand swinging at his side and his right hang stuck into his right pocket. Moriarty knew instantly that he had a gun in his pocket and was clutching it to feel safer, which Moriarty thought was silly, because it was your wit and intelligence that kept you alive, not some emasculating gun. He walked quickly to the door that led to the staircase and he raced down the stairs.

Lestrade walked quickly down the street with his left hand swinging freely at his side, and his right hand clutching the butt of his gun in his pocket, which gave him a sense of power and safety, especially because he didn't know whom, or what to expect. He rounded the corner onto Baker street and as he neared Thorax he saw a small crowd of people gathered around in a circle. "Excuse me, police, coming through. Move it!" Lestrade barked as he pushed his way past a middle aged pale man with a dark leather jacket much like his, and an older woman who had her hands clasped around her mouth in disbelief. Lestrade broke free of the people and saw a horrible sight. There was a middle aged woman who was lying face down on the ground, with a hole in the back of her head, at the level of the first cervical spine. "Bloody hell," mumbled Lestrade, "what a bloody fuckin mess this is. The killer had severed the woman's spinal cord, killing her instantly, but making sure that she had felt as little pain as possible. Next to the man a hypodermic needle with a .25 CC of blood in it, lay on the ground. Lestrade pulled out one of his lab collecting bags, pulled on some blue latex gloves and threw the needle into the bag as evidence. Reaching down, he felt the woman's neck, one the side, about 2-3 inches under the angle of the mandible (corner of the jaw) for the carotid pulse, but feeling none he checked her radial pulse, which was also not present. He quickly called the station and requested officers to the location for a deceased woman, but dispatch told him that the only report that had been made, was for suspicious activity by a pale 6 foot man with dark hair, almost black, seen walking around the corner with his hands in the pockets of his dark leather jacket. Lestrade immediately spun around, recognizing the description of the man as the one that he had bumped into earlier.

However, the man was nowhere to be seen. "Bloody hell where did he go?" Lestrade started to say when he received a text message from SH, which instructed him to meet Sherlock down the street at a coffee shop. Lestrade hurriedly handed the evidence bag to an officer and briskly walked down the street towards the shop that Sherlock had instructed him to visit. Lestrade felt that something just wasn't right about the strange man, but he couldn't help himself, as he wondered if that man was the same one who had texted him earlier. Lestrade pulled open the door to the shop and stepped in, and glanced around, and as per usual he saw a man sitting in the back corner, fingers tapping the table and glancing around at all the customers and those hurrying by outside.

"Sherlock, pleasure. What can I help you with?" said Lestrade. Sherlock pulled out a mobile phone which was in a plastic bag and set it on the table. "Oh no Sherlock, what's this?" questioned Lestrade. "It's Watson's mobile" Sherlock replied. "Yes I can see that, but why on earth's name do you have it, and why is it in a plastic bag?" "Well you see, I have reason to believe that John isn't being entirely truthful here, and I have reason to believe that Moriarty might be involved in this…situation." Lestrade sighed deeply, closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers. He had been feeling crappy for the last week, and he knew this cold damp fall weather wasn't helping his sinuses. He'd had a massive headache and a sore throat, so much so that it was really tough to drink or even swallow much since it hurt and his larynx and pharynx (throat) felt tight and swollen. He went to Watson to see what the matter was, and Watson diagnosed him with strep throat, and had started him on 50 mg Prednisone, and some antibiotic called Ciprofloxacin. When the waitress walked over to take his order, he asked for a small black coffee, no sugar, and one of their famous raspberry scones. "SO Sherlock, what in earth's name makes you suspect John? I can't possibly imagine such a scenario, the man's bloody attached to your leg like a bloody hound! Won't let you out of his sight…I highly doubt he's up to funny business. In fact I just saw him the other day for my sore throat and he was his usual self." The waitress returned and Lestrade thanked her and paid for his coffee and scone. He pulled the small bottle of small blue elliptical shaped pills and proceeded to pop the cap open and throw one in his mouth and take a small swig of coffee. He replaced the bottle in his right pants pocket and looked meaningfully at Sherlock. Sherlock sighed impatiently and said quickly, "You see detective, he's been acting strangely lately. He goes out late every other night and won't return til the wee hours of the morning, and John's always been the punctual one to bed every night at 22:00 hours. You know how much of a planner he is detective. Gets 8 and half hours of sleep every night. Lately though he won't return til 1:00am or at all. His hair will sometimes be neat and has the vague hint of Head and Shoulders shampoo, which he doesn't have or neither do I. He's also developed a tick of scratching his left arm where he recently just started wearing a new watch. I could continue, but I'm sure you've heard enough." Lestrade nodded and coughed again, feeling his throat tighten a bit, "Seems… *cough* like something is definitely going on. Has he talked to you about any problems with Mary lately?" Sherlock glanced out the window and said, "Come on Lestrade. You know John. Doesn't utter a word of his private life, to anyone. Not even me." Lestrade choked and noticed that his throat definitely felt much tighter, and felt a bit light headed, so much so that he noticed Sherlock placed his hand on Lestrade's arm and saw his mouth form the sentence "are you ok?" Funny, Sherlock never mouthed words. He was always vocal, almost to a fault. Lestrade moved his head to look out the window, thinking that maybe he needed some fresh air. A black curtain started from the top of his vision and quickly swept down the rest of his eyes.

Sherlock jumped to his feet as Lestrade slumped off his chair and fell to the floor. "Bloody hell!" he shouted and rushed to Lestrade's unconscious body and rolled him on to his back, beginning to look and listen for breathing signs. "Dammit John, where were you now, this was your forte. Not mind. I don't deal with medical stuff!" he grumbled. "JOHN… Could it really be that simple?" He reached in Lestrade's pocket and pulled out the pill bottle. "Of course, I've been an idiot. Too simple." The waitress began to sob and Sherlock jumped up and ran outside, to escape the waitress's hysteria and to call the medics. He down the street, hailed a cab and sped off to the apartment, hoping he was in time to catch them both.

John felt his phone vibrate as he jumped in the cab. A text message notification popped up on his phone and it read… _It is finished! I'm headed back to my place. JM_ John smiled and knew that Sherlock had been outsmarted. Little did he know that the phone John "left" in their apartment wasn't his real phone at all. It was an exact duplicate. So well copied that it was virtually impossible to distinguish from his own. Lestrade was dead, and in a few minutes, Sherlock would be as well.

Sherlock urged the cabbie forward as he knew that the timing on his plan was crucial. The cabbie pulled up outside the tall apartment buildings lining the street and he breathed a quick sigh, as the light in the apartment was off. He thanked the cabbie, paid him extra and pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves, bounded up the three flights of stairs. He stopped to listen into apartment 321, but he heard nothing. Quietly he slipped a paper clip from his pea coat pocket and picked the lock. If there was one good thing about people like him, they often were so egocentric they ignored the advice of securing their residences more effectively. He slipped off his pea coat, suit coat, and suit jacket to reveal a set of royal blue scrubs. He pulled a pair of booties from the suit coat pocket, threw them over his feet then proceeded to grab his clothes and threw them in the closet.

Moriarty pulled up to his apartment, got out and calmly walked inside the big brown door and let it shut quietly. Looking at his watch, he knew John would arrive within the next two minutes. He opened the door quickly and motioned to the cabbie to stay there and the cabbie nodded in reply. James turned to look at his phone, so he didn't notice the cabbie's face briefly illuminated by the blue light of his cellphone. The cabbie quickly shut his phone and glanced at Moriarty in the doorway, who luckily happened to be staring at his phone. Scant moments later, another cab pulled up and Watson jumped out, with a smile on his face. Pulling the gun from his waistband, Moriarty cocked the gun, checked the silencer and waited. He heard light footsteps quickly approaching the door, and then the door swung open and he fired.

Sherlock's phone vibrated, but he didn't feel the need to check it. He heard slow, quiet footsteps and the sounds of something heavy being dragged. He stepped out of the closet and took a deep breath. He pulled John's gun from his band and noticed that his left hand was shaking. Never before had he held a gun, much less shoot one. He raised his right arm, cocked the gun and pointed it at the door. The gun was slightly shaking but he assured himself that it was easy enough, just pull the trigger and shoot. He heard a key scraping in the lock, saw the door handle turn, and the door opened. He saw a pale face with dark hair and he fired right between the eyes without a moment's hesitation.

Brains and blood splattered the back wall as Moriarty dropped to the floor. He landed on top of John's body. "Fitting" thought Sherlock, "that the two lovers would end their romance in this position."

Of course it had been a challenge for a while, but there wasn't a problem Sherlock couldn't solve. He realized that John had been sleeping with Moriarty, and his words had poisoned John. Much like John had poisoned Lestrade. "Quite clever actually, using John's medical skills to get to Lestrade." thought Sherlock. Too bad it didn't work out and they were both dead. Another case solved by Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
